She came with a scream muffled by my cock. Her whole body convulsed, and her inner muscles clampeddown on Oliver hard enough to drag a groan from his throat.
“Again.”
Oliver’s thumb found her clit. Within moments, she was coming again, harder than before.
“Oliver. Now.”
He buried himself deep and let the orgasm tear through him.
Then it was my turn.
Years of denial crested and broke. I came with a groan, pleasure flooding through me, whiting out my vision and my thoughts and everything except the feeling of her mouth around me and the knowledge that I had finally, finally let myself have this.
Afterward, I couldn’t move.
I collapsed on the bed. My chest heaved. Ophelia curled against my side with her head on my chest. Oliver lay on her other side, one hand resting on her hip.
No one spoke.
The silence should have given me time to think about how I’d broken every rule I’d made for myself. I’d let them in. I’d taken what I wanted. And now, I was lying in the wreckage of everything I’d built. It should’ve shattered me, but it didn’t. Ophelia’s hand was warm against myskin. Oliver’s breathing was steady and calm. And for the first time in longer than I could remember, the wanting didn’t feel like a weapon.
I lay still until their breathing deepened into sleep, then extracted myself from the tangle of their limbs.
I stood at the edge of the bed. They’d shifted in my absence, drawn together by some unconscious gravity. Ophelia’s head rested on Oliver’s shoulder. His arm curved around her waist. They looked peaceful. Content.
The solitude of my tower waited—safe and protected. But I didn’t go.
I stood in the darkness, observing them in sleep.
I should leave.
Instead, I stayed.
8
OPHELIA
My mind was several seconds behind my senses when I woke pinned between two male bodies.
A heavy arm lay draped over my waist, and heat radiated from behind me. The scent of cedar and whiskey and sex surrounded me. Where was I? How had I gotten here?
As the memories surfaced, I recalled Kiernan’s hands on my skin and his voice in my ear, commanding and demanding. Oliver thrusting inside me while Kiernan’s dark, hungry focus riveted on every motion. The three of us had tangled together in ways I’d never imagined, never knew I wanted, never understood I needed.
Except that wasn’t entirely true. I’d known. That night, alone in my room, when my fantasies had shifted from Oliver to Kiernan to them commanding me together—I’d known then, but I’d been too afraid to acknowledge it.
I stopped breathing when the arm around my waist flexed, pulling me closer—Kiernan was awake. When I turned my head, his eyes met mine. They were unreadable.
“Don’t move.” His voice was rough, stripped of his usual polished control. In this light, with his hair disheveled and his jaw shadowed with stubble, he looked younger and more human, less like the untouchable superior I’d worked alongside.
I held still as his attention traveled over my face, then past me to Oliver’s still sleeping form.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
The question was simple. The answer wasn’t.
My body ached in unfamiliar places—my thighs, my hips, the tender spots where his fingers had gripped hard enough to bruise. But beneath the physical awareness lurked a strange, unsettling sense of exposure, as if he’d peeled away layers I hadn’t known existed and seen the raw truth underneath.
“I don’t know,” I said.
